


Who Else?

by phoenixflight



Series: Still the Same [2]
Category: Call Me By Your Name (2017)
Genre: Feelings, Fluff, Multi, an art gallery is involved, everyone talks so that's nice, healthy processing?, i stayed up too late writing this and now i cant tag, really this is just a sweet story read it and enjoy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-12
Updated: 2018-04-12
Packaged: 2019-04-21 21:29:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,420
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14293854
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/phoenixflight/pseuds/phoenixflight
Summary: Elio spotted her from across the room, looking stunning in a burgundy cocktail dress, with her thick dark curls spilling down her back. She was at the nexus of a slowly circulating parade of well-wishers, friends, and critics wandering through the gallery, drinks in hand, each stopping to congratulate her on the show. Even without that social cue though, he would have recognized her from the wedding photos Oliver kept.Elio and Oliver have been living together for months and Elio still hasn't met the ex-wife, so he takes matters into his own hands.Sequel to Toujours la Meme, go read that first.





	Who Else?

  1. Elio



Elio spotted her from across the room, looking stunning in a burgundy cocktail dress, with her thick dark curls spilling down her back. She was at the nexus of a slowly circulating parade of well-wishers, friends, and critics wandering through the gallery, drinks in hand, each stopping to congratulate her on the show. Even without that social cue though, he would have recognized her from the wedding photos Oliver kept.

Laughter and the clink of glasses echoed through the gallery above the shuffle of footsteps. Accepting a glass of champagne from a caterer, Elio strolled down the length of the room, examining the paintings. Patricia Goldman was rapidly gaining recognition in certain circles for her eclectic still lifes in bold, flat colors, but Elio thought that the few works that included people were her best. In one painting, a small girl constructed an elaborate fortress of blocks, brow creased in palpable concentration. In another, a lush display of flowers was the foreground to a couple arguing behind it.

He halted in front of a smaller canvas, tucked away at a corner of the exhibit. It was a portrait of a seated man, mostly turned away from the viewer, his broad shoulders the focus of the piece. His fist was pressed against his chin, the profile of his face dominated by the deep furl of his brow. Anyone else might have thought that it was a contemplative or troubled pose, but Elio instantly recognized the coiled tension of Oliver’s posture, the moment of self-doubt as he fought with himself. It was not a portrait of repose but of beginning. The tag beside it said “ _Who else?_ 1986, Oil on Canvas, 24x40in”

There was a soft shuffle of footsteps behind him, and he heard one woman say to another, “Oh I like this one.”

Her companion hummed. “It’s got a weak focal point.” They moved on.

Elio let his feet carry him further down the gallery, past a painting of an open suitcase with the contents tipped out, another of a dining table set for two with vivid sunlight spilling across it.

With one eye he watched Trish Goldman, standing near the hors d’oeuvres, nodding and thanking people as they passed by. She was bright, magnetic, looking relaxed at the center of attention. Elio pictured Oliver beside her, a blond Adonis to her dark-haired, red-lipped Aphrodite. They would have been beautiful together. The thought had a petty snarl of possessiveness, a sharp edge of guilt. Oliver had given up so much to be with him, endangered his job, his relationship with his parents, left this beautiful, loving wife. He had reassured Elio again and again that his divorce from Trish had not been about him, but Elio could never fully shake the guilty suspicion that it had been, while harboring a pang of jealousy at the thought that it had not.

He hadn’t planned to say anything to her, but he wanted her to look at him, to be seen by eyes that had seen Oliver, to exist in her world in a solid way, as if that would make him more real to the man he slept beside every night.

Approaching her like another well-wisher, he held out his hand. “Ms. Goldman, congratulations.” His heart was pounding.

“Thank you.” She beamed at him, taking his hand.

“I’m not much of a visual artist but it’s a great show. I particularly liked _Who else?_ ”

“Oh thank you!” Her expression shifted into what he realized was a slightly more genuine smile. “I haven’t heard that from anyone yet this evening.”

“You really captured the energy of the subject. Very evocative.”

“Thanks. You know, an artist doesn’t have favorites, but...” she leaned forward conspiratorially. “If I had to pick, that one might be it.”

“It seems very personal.”

She chuckled. “You’ve got a good eye. I don’t usually paint people I know, but that’s my ex-husband.”

“Yes. It looks exactly like him.” As she began to frown in confusion, he added. “I’m Elio Perlman.”

Her perfect lips parted, eyes widening, but she recovered quickly. Her gaze flickered over him, and she raised her eyebrows. “Well, well, well. If you wanted to meet me, you could have invited me over for dinner.”

“I’m sorry to surprise you like this.”

“Indeed. Consider me surprised.” She eyed him up and down again. “Elio Perlman, by God.”

“Yes.” He cast around for something else. “Oliver wanted to be here, but he has a conference this weekend.”

“I know. He sent me his regrets. Does he know you’re here?”

“No.”

“No.” Tapping her finger against the rim of her champagne glass, she shook her head. “So you decided to find me in my natural habitat? Without Oliver hovering,” she added dryly.

He shrugged. “I was curious.”

She looped an arm through his, drawing him with her away from the knot of people around the hors d’oeuvres and toward a quiet corner. He could smell her perfume. “I’m sure I’m not that much of a mystery. You on the other hand... the piano protégé, the young genius, the Italian boy who stole Oliver’s heart.”

“Italian, French, American. It’s a mix, really.”

“Really.” She sounded amused. “I am very curious about you, Elio Perlman.”

“I’m...” he shrugged again. “Just me. I play piano, I read, go dancing.”

“Mmm. And what’s important to you?”

“Important to me? Oliver. Music.” He looked away, at a painting of a stack of books in front of a mirror showing the hazy reflection of a woman in lingerie. One of the books was titled _Heraclitus_. “Just... knowing myself. Being genuine. Not being afraid.”

“An admirable goal. I’ve made plenty mistakes in my life through being afraid.”

“Was Oliver one of them?”

She gave him a sharp look. “What makes you say that?”

“Nothing. Just something Oliver said about his family.”

“Marrying Oliver was...” she shrugged. “I would choose differently now, but that was then. Loving him was never a mistake. We just tried to love each other the wrong way for us.”

Elio swallowed. Her voice was a little deeper than he had imagined, commanding and sensual when she spoke of love. He imagined her making vows, in the wedding dress he had seen pictures of, Oliver looking at her the way he looked at Elio when he thought he wasn’t being watched, with tender, almost painful love in his eyes. “I don’t think he regrets it either.”

“I hope not. We made the best choices we knew how to make. Are you happy with your choices, Elio Perlman?”

“I. Yes.”

Trish patted his arm. “That’s good. I suppose you two deserve each other.”

Elio’s brow furrowed. “What does that mean?”

“It means I can already tell you’re just the kind of dreamer Oliver loves. Try not to think too hard all the time, it can get you in trouble.”

He opened his mouth to ask more when a woman with red hair and matching nails sidled up to them. She had a camera and a press pass. “Elio Perlman, isn’t it, the pianist?” He nodded. “I’m Samantha Gardner, _Arts Magazine. Ms. Goldman, how do you know Mr. Perlman? I hadn’t realized you were in the same circle!”_

__

__

They glanced at one another. “We have a mutual friend,” Trish said, mouth quirking.

“It’s wonderful to meet you, Mr. Perlman. I’m hoping to attend your recital next month.”

“Pleased to meet you, Ms. Gardner.” He shook her hand. “I hope to see you there.”

“What do you think of the exhibit, Mr. Perlman? I wouldn’t have placed you in the same art scene.”

“I’m not much of a visual artist unless it has to do with 16th century statues, but I’ve enjoyed the exhibit.”

“How charming! Would you mind if I snapped a photo of the two of you? It’s always exciting to see new talent mingling.”

“Of course not. Elio?” He nodded, and Trish drew him close. She was a little shorter than him, even in heels, and caught again the floral fragrance from her curls as she tipped her head toward his. She was warm against his side. The camera flashed.

“Ms. Gardner, would you send me a copy of that photo when you have it developed?” Trish flashed a brilliant smile at the reporter and squeezed Elio’s arm. “My ex-husband is a big fan of Mr. Perlman’s.”

  1. Oliver



Oliver dropped his suitcase by the dresser, wrapped his arms around Elio, and toppled them sideways onto the bed with a gusty sigh. “Goodnight,” he mumbled. Trapped underneath him Elio squirmed and laughed. “No, really, I’m going to sleep now,” Oliver added, face buried in Elio’s hair.

Elio said something muffled.

“What was that? Oh, I’m sorry, are you talking to me?” He nuzzled Elio’s ear. “Can’t hear you, speak up.”

“Mmmfrsf mmph!” Elio thumped his side, and Oliver rolled off him, chuckling.

“Are you trying to kill me?” Elio gasped, propping himself up on his elbows.

“Why would I do that? C’mere.” Looping his arms around Elio he dragged him against his side, kissing him. Elio hummed happily against his mouth, making Oliver smile and break the kiss. “Missed you,” he muttered, pressing their foreheads together.

“Missed you too,” Elio sighed, tucking his chin against Oliver’s shoulder. “How was the conference?”

“Not terrible.” Oliver rubbed his fingers along Elio’s arm, eyes heavy. He should get up and make something to eat. Elio was a terrible cook and had probably been living on take out all weekend. In a minute. He’d just rest a little longer. It was so comfortable, with the warm, bony weight of Elio against his side, the smell of him, their bed, filling his nose. “Do anything interesting while I was gone?” he yawned.

“I met Trish.”

“What?” Oliver jolted awake. He pushed himself upright, dislodging Elio from his shoulder, and stared down at her. “What do you mean, you met Trish?”

Elio blinked innocently at him. “I thought I’d go to the gallery opening, introduce myself, pass along my regards, you know.”

“You. Mmp.” He pressed his lips together. “And you didn’t tell me you were planning to do this?”

“Is it a crime to go to a public gallery show?”

“No, you goose. I’m just... surprised.” After having spent years carefully keeping Trish and Elio separate, he hadn’t worked up the courage to introduce them yet. The longer he put it off, the more daunting it seemed, and having them collide outside his control was vertiginous.

“I wanted to see what you loved so much,” Elio said softly.

It was the kind of whip-fast honesty that had always hit Oliver like a blow and his startled indignation subsided. Of course Elio was curious and insecure about the person who had been a semi-mythical figure during the first three years of their relationship in New York, an ever present ghost to their affair. And of course he had wanted the first encounter to be on his own terms. It was so Elio, brave and determined in the face of vulnerability, that Oliver’s heart squeezed. “Well.” He sighed and carded a hand through Elio’s hair, fingers cradling the back of his head. “What’d you think?”

“She’s a good artist.”

Oliver ruffled his hair. “Yes, I have a type in that regard.”

He ducked and shrugged. “She’s sharp.”

“That she is.”

“She knows you well. Seems to care about you a lot.”

“I care about her.”

Elio tipped his head back to look at him. “She said we should invite her to dinner.”

“We probably should. Trish is always right, you know. I don’t know why I didn’t introduce you two sooner, just...” he shrugged. “Afraid, maybe.”

“Afraid of what?”

“That you’d hate each other.”

“I don’t hate her. I didn’t, not even when you were married.”

Oliver breathed out heavily. “I’m grateful for that.” Outside a siren wailed. Faint music drifted from the apartment below and the radiator clicked on. Elio played with the hem of his shirt, fingers brushing Oliver’s stomach.

“You miss her.” It wasn’t a question.

Oliver studied Elio’s face. He was calm, but Oliver could see the guarded shadow in his eyes, the old jealousy masked with indifference. “I don’t miss being married to her. By the end it was more difficult than it was good.”

“But you miss _her._ ”

“I...sometimes do.” He stroked Elio’s cheek, reading clearly the youthful resentment. _What did she give you that I don’t?_ The gap in age between them yawned suddenly as it sometimes did, an ache under Oliver’s breastbone and a tendril of hopeless frustration. He and Trish were good friends, they had lunch together, stayed in touch, but sometimes he missed the intimacies of a romantic connection. Her bare feet in the kitchen in the morning, the smell of her hair, the way she bit her tongue while she painted, the sound of her laughter in bed. It was natural to carry the affectionate shadows of past love. As you twined your life with someone, they became part of you, forever. It was something all adults learned as they loved and left those they loved. Jealousy for past lovers faded, but Elio still felt it fresh and sharply, and it made Oliver feel old.

It was more than that too. Oliver missed taking Trish to faculty dinners at the university, and the way his father had smiled at their wedding. He missed going to shul for the High Holy Days, and knowing others saw him as he wanted to be seen, as he was meant to be, and feeling safe.

Elio knew about that, they talked about it, but he would never understand, not really, not viscerally. The Perlmans were wonderful, so wonderful that Elio would never feel the sick lurch of fear in his stomach or the tightness in his throat when he thought about family, thought about belonging. Oliver hadn’t been to the synagogue since the divorce.

But this delicate, frightening life he was building with Elio was full of new treasures, all the more precious for being hard won. Long walks on Saturdays, reading side by side at a café, listening to him play the upright piano in the living room, wrestling matches that dissolved into kisses, cheerful arguments about translation and music. A sense of comfortable compatibility that he and Trish had never shared.

He curled his arm more tightly around Elio’s shoulders, pressing his cheek against the top of his head and breathing in the familiar smell of him. “It’s worth it.”

**Author's Note:**

> Some folks in the comments on Toujours la Meme asked what it would be like if Elio and Trish met. And I wanted to explore some of the dynamic between Oliver and Elio once they have established a relationship a little. I actually found it really hard to write Elio's voice here. How'd I do? What do you think?  
> Comments are love!  
> Find me on tumblr @stillwaterseas.


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